donstoporidie

my sight will wane, my fingers made

to nothing while my touches fade.

my back will arch, with time's hard press,

my mind will slow, and then regress.

my dreams will leave me soon and yet

i know i'll be without regret

for once you kissed me on the cheek,

and that stays strong,

while i grow weak

I promised you a golden crown,

a palace made of alabaster.

I promised you a petal gown-

a kiss was all that I was after.

I promised you a secret place,

a garden grown of five red roses.

But promises, without a trace,

when spoken, my mind oft disposes.

Here are five roses, if I might,

to never let my compact fade.

A kiss was had beneath the night,

so promises must then be made.